


I Comma Square Bracket Recruit's Name Square Bracket

by determamfidd



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: (though I suppose it's more of a Discworld AU sort of thing - idk it's probably bloody quantum), GNU Terry, Gigolas Week 3, M/M, Multi, casefic, crackfic and crossovers, this got way longer than I expected whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new Watch trainees are an odd bunch. There's a Dwarf, of course, but that's practically routine in Ankh-Morpork these days. There's a couple of Men, one of whom has a shiny shiny sword. There's a bunch of Hobbits, new to the city, one of whom is a little quiet and subdued. There's even a Wizard (thanks to Vetinari's damned blasted equal-employment quotias). And lastly there's a suspiciously pointy bloke who <i>swears</i> he's not an Elf, even if he sings just a little too much...</p><p>When one of Gimli's cousins seems to miraculously return from the dead only to report <i>another</i> missing person, a chain of events is set in motion that leads to this bunch of mismatched raw recruits stumbling into a new, unpleasant and dangerous sort of investigation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Comma Square Bracket Recruit's Name Square Bracket

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has taken on something of a life of its own? IDEK. It has gotten so long that I am splitting it into three chapters. I really wanted to have this ready for [Day One of Gigolas Week](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/gigolas-week), so I am posting the first chapter now! 
> 
> The next two chapters should be out as the week progresses. I blame the unreliable nature of Discworld time. I need a History Monk, stat.
> 
> (All footnotes are clickable - click the number to go to the footnotes at the bottom, and then click the footnote's number itself to return to where you were reading!)
> 
>  
> 
> _The title is, of course, taken from the traditional Oath of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, as read by Carrot Ironfoundersson._

His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh and Commander of the City Watch, gave his new recruits a long, level stare. It was the sort of stare that made the spine stiffen all by itself. Gimli could feel himself pulling up to his full height in response. 1 It was a stare that could probably flatten ball-bearings and iron clothes.

“Fighting,” Mister Vimes said. “In the locker-room.”

“Yessir,” said the sarge, his hand dinking against his clockwork cooling helmet2. “Not der first time, dese two.”

Mister Vimes’ stare didn’t waver. Beside Gimli, the other new recruit gave a long, hard gulp.

“Do I dare ask the reason why,” Mister Vimes said. _I have had a very long day and it is only mid-morning,_ said his tone of voice, _and you clowns are not helping._

“He attacked me!” protested Gimli’s opponent, and Gimli growled under his breath. His temper, never very far away at the best of times, crackled back to life. 

“Aye, because you had a go at me, you damned point-eared Elven…”

“And there you go again!” the other new guard exclaimed in the haughty way that set Gimli’s teeth on edge. “I tell you, I’m not an Elf. I am human, I am from _Llamedos!”_

“An’ I tell you, we haven’t forgotten what an Elf looks like in the Ramtops!”

“Llamedos, eh?” Vimes cut in before they could begin squabbling again. “Very green place, I hear. Very soggy.”

The other recruit, Legolas, simmered down a little. “Yes, I suppose…”

“Lots of stone circles?”

Legolas seemed to wilt, ever so slightly. “Um. Yes. Though the whole virgin sacrifice thing hasn’t been done ever since the new 60-Gigalith Circles took the market by storm. Nowadays we tend to stick to aggressive harp-playing and close harmony singing. Mostly.”

“I see.”

Legolas squirmed.

“And the Ramtops are reported to be very hilly,” Vimes continued. His voice was still curiously level, and Gimli distrusted it. Particularly because that stare was _still happening,_ and the last time anything had stared at Gimli like that, it had wanted to eat him. 

The rumours in the locker-room about Mister Vimes and the Summoning Dark didn’t seem quite so far-fetched in the face of that stare.

“Yessir,” he said eventually, opting to err on the side of caution. “Very hilly.”

“You from anywhere near Lancre?”

“Above it, sir. Copperhead boy, sir.” Gimli tried to dodge the gaze by looking straight ahead. It didn’t work. Vimes’ eyes kept drawing him back, like two little pissed-off lodestones.

“So, pretty steep around those parts, I hear.”

“Yessir.”

Vimes’ stare ought to be classed as an edged weapon. “Lots of cliffs, that sort of thing.”

“The word precipitous might be used here, I fink,” said Detritus, nodding, and all three sets of eyes turned to him in mild shock. 

“Oh, right, winter,” Vimes grunted. 

Detritus tapped his nose. It made a sound like _plink!_ “Come on, you don’t wanna bother wiv dis, Mister Vimes. You say the word, I bang dere heads together, all over.”

“You’ve the other recruits to train. No, I want to stamp this out right now,” said the commander, and he leaned back in his chair and chewed absently on an unlit cigar. “Llamedos and the Ramtops haven’t any bad blood between ‘em. There are Dwarf clans _living_ in Llamedos, damn it – I should know, I’ve met Rhys Rhysson myself, saved his life a couple of times and all. And what’shisbeard here - Gloinson here hasn’t had any trouble with trolls like some other Dwarf recruits… so what’s this Elf thing? Not _another_ bloody feud?”

Detritus shuddered. It was like watching a small, localised earthquake. “Elves is bad business, Mister Vimes. But Greenleaf says he isn’t an Elf, an’ he would prob'ly know.”

Dwarves and Trolls have long memories – unlike humans. Dwarves and Trolls remember _why_ iron is important, and why folklore speaks of leaving saucers of milk at the door and locking the windows when the Fair Folk were abroad. 

Humans remember that the Elves were beautiful, that they shone, that they sang and laughed as they rode through the night. 

Dwarves and Trolls remember _why they were laughing._

Gimli’s hands fisted at his sides, and his skin prickled.

“I swear to you, I am _not an Elf,”_ Legolas snapped, his chin rising. His sharp, beardless chin, on his preternaturally pretty face. Surmounted by that golden hair, and crowned with those damning _pointed ears!_

“If you’re no Elf then I’m a tooth fairy,” Gimli snarled, and Legolas whirled to glare at him. “Look at you, you’re the spitting image of--”

“Shut up,” said Mister Vimes. Gimli promptly shut up. 

“Head bangin’ I tell you, I do ‘em like coconuts, put dem straight to beddy-byes,” Detritus said encouragingly. Vimes held up a hand. 

“I don’t care what he is. He could be a bloody lawyer for all I give a damn,” he said. His eyes still spoke volumes. They said, _you are the latest annoyance in a long long list of annoyances, and incidentally I am also the most superior of your superior commanders and have an intimate knowledge of how to make your life a miserable living hell_. “I’ve had enough of Koom Valley in my Watch: let’s not have another damned species battle over the cocoa, all right? You - Not-Elf. No relation to that Music-With-Rocks-In singer, are you?”

Legolas flushed. “Very remote, sir.”

“Hmm.” Vimes chewed on his cigar some more, and then pinned Gimli with that terrible stare again. “Gloinson, if I hear another word about Elves and axes in locker-doors, you will be out on your arse faster than you can say ‘Burleigh and Stronginthearm.’ Stay out of Greenleaf’s way, you hear?”

Legolas smirked down at Gimli. Gimli wanted to cut his kneecaps off.

“And Greenleaf, wipe that smug grin off your dial. We don’t tolerate speciesism in my Watch. Besides, there are thirty-two Dwarves in this watchhouse alone. If any of ‘em had heard you use the words ‘lawn ornament’, we could probably have written you off as a suicide3

Legolas swallowed again. “Yessir. Sorry sir.”

“Gloinson, you’ll be reporting to Captain Angua from here on. Greenleaf, report to Captain Ironfoundersson. I don’t need any more of this rubbish, I thought we’d sorted it all out at long last. But it seems that fate once again opens its bowels and rains down upon us.” The commander had a glower that any Dwarf would have been proud of. “Now, get the hell out of my office. I have to actually do the damned, blasted paperwork, because that’s the sort of day this is shaping up to be, apparently. I can feel lettuce looming in my near future. Maybe even _avocado._ ”

Gimli saluted hurriedly and got out, swiftly followed by Legolas.

“It really no problem,” he heard Detritus say as he scurried out of the room. 

“Keep it in reserve. A Dwarf’s head is bloody hard, after all,” was the commander’s weary answer. “Elves, eh? Well, at least he’s not another godsdamned bloodsucker.”

“Lettuce?” Legolas wondered as the door closed behind them. 

Gimli pulled a face. “Sergeant Littlebottom said that Lady Sybil makes him eat green things. Poor bugger.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to common vermin onna stick.”

Gimli felt his cheeks heat, and he ground his teeth together. “Not without ketchup,” he growled. “What kind of heathen d’you take me for, eh?”

…

The thing was, Gimli had been incredibly excited to come to Ankh-Morpork. 

Swarms of Dwarves were leaving Copperhead and Uberwald, all heading for the city. Most of them were young, like Gimli, and eager to start a brand new life, and wear their helmets backwards and the newest micromail fashions, and perhaps even sing songs which had other metals in the title4.

Gimli had a whole army of distant cousins, and one of them had sent a letter back to Copperhead full of glowing praise for the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. It was a fine life, he said, with all the rats you could eat. Some time after that, the Sammies started filling the towns of Lancre, and everyone could see that things were different now. Things got done. And the Dwarves approved: Dwarves like order, and the Sammies were incorruptible and smart and good at what they did.

Then the news came back about the Low King in Uberwald.

 _Then_ the news came back about what lay beneath Koom Valley.

The Dwarves were shocked and awed. To be part of such a City Watch, whispered the young ones – why, what an honour!5 To learn under the great Blackboard Monitor himself!

And so Gimli kissed his mother, shook his father’s hand, and set off to seek his fortune. 

It had been a great shock to discover that his ‘distant cousin’ was now a Captain of the Watch. Also, that he was approximately three feet taller than Gimli had anticipated. Still, Captain Carrot was a good Dwarf, and Gimli respected him greatly. 

Everything else had also not been _quite_ as he expected. For instance, Sergeant Colon wasn’t exactly what Gimli had envisaged when he had daydreamed about the elite force for good that was Sir Samuel Vimes’ Watch. He hadn’t imagined that he’d be up to the elbows in muck some days, or that he would have to strain cigarette ash out of the sugar bowl when he wanted a spoonful in his tea. 

Still…. Ankh-Morpork! City of a thousand surprises (and three times as many smells)! And Gimli was breathing it all in as a new lance-constable in the famous Ankh-Morpork City Watch, everything he had dreamed of since he had been old enough to swing an axe.

And then he had been introduced to the other eight new recruits, and upon laying eyes on the tall pointy one with the lilting accent, all hell had broken loose. 

…

“All right den… wait for itttttt…. And DISARM!”

Gimli whipped about sharply on his heel, turned to the training dummy, and rapped it smartly on the elbow with his new nightstick. The rusty old sword in its ‘hand’ clattered to the ground. All around him, his fellow recruits did the same, and the air was filled with the sound of metal hitting the gravel training-ground of Treacle Mine Road. Sergeant Detritus bristled importantly as he stalked (well, inasmuch as any Troll can stalk) down their line. 

“Lance-Constable Took,” he barked, and the youngest of their number shook a little.

“Yessir!”

“Dat the wrong arm.”

“…oh.” The Hobbit looked crestfallen. 

Detritus gave the young lance-constable (who seemed to be all curls and appetite and ready grin) a long, slightly-puzzled look, as though he wasn’t quite sure how his shouting had not produced the correct effect. Then he drew himself up with some dignity, and said, “Okie doke, now we go to partner work before we on the beat. Pair up. Old guy, you against me.”

The old man with the badly disguised Wizard’s Staff nodded pleasantly. “Certainly, sir.”

Detritus squinted at him suspiciously, and once again he seemed to dismiss it as unimportant for the moment. “Right. Get fighting. First to disarm. You bang elbow, then you get out of range.”

Gimli took off his helmet to mop briefly at his brow, and then tugged at the breastplate he had been given. It didn’t fit, and he would have to get it readjusted. Corporal Ping had been the one to outfit them, and he had rolled his eyes at Gimli’s expression: “Yeah, we know, we know. You Dwarves all get like that about the standard-issue stuff. Go talk to Littlebottom in Forensics, she knows someone who can customise armour a treat.”

The four Hobbits – Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry – had already paired up in a trice. Frodo was an older Hobbit with an educated turn of phrase, and yet the honest and rustic Sam seemed to be attached to him at the hip. Pippin and Merry, a pair of green tearaways and the youngest of all nine of the recruits, were cousins of sorts, well-accustomed to being partners in crime. Already Gimli foresaw barrack-room pranks galore from those two. They probably could power the Clacks with all the dumb young energy they had.

The two Men were an much more reserved addition. Upon meeting the older one, Vimes had remarked, “oh gods, not another one. Go talk to Captain Carrot, and if there are any bloody prophecies I _don’t want to know,”_ – which had perplexed everybody present, and had prompted Detritus to remark, “it okay, Mister Vimes says stuff like dat alla time.” Still, Aragorn seemed a decent enough bloke, if a little formal and melancholy. He was also a dab hand at patching up any nicks and cuts, and so Gimli made an effort to be friendly towards him. 

Boromir was already quite protective of Pippin and Merry, which had confused Gimli a little before the Man wistfully mentioned his younger brother in far-away Zemphis. He threw himself into the training as though each session were an act of defiance, and kept his head down most of the time. There was some story there, probably.

The last recruit was obviously a Wizard. Gandalf was old, grey-bearded, carried a staff with a big knob on the end, and wore a robe and everything. Apparently, hiring him had been Vetinari’s idea, because the Wizards might not usually break the kinds of laws that needed a policeman, but what would happen if they did? The Watch would break out in an unfortunate case of frogs, that’s what. And so Gandalf had been brought into their eclectic little band. Gimli felt a certain kinship towards him, as one Ramtops-bred lad to another.

Vimes was apparently resentfully icily proper about the whole affair, but Captain Angua obviously thought it was hilarious.

In deference to Watch Policy, Gandalf now wore a helmet underneath his pointy hat, and a breastplate over his robe. He seemed quite cheerful about this. 

“Gloinson, why you not fighting?”

Gimli shook himself out of his daydream to see that all the others were watching him. Boromir and Aragorn were facing off, their truncheons held like swords, and the Hobbits had foregone their truncheons altogether in favour of leaping all over each other like a bunch of kittens. Gandalf was casually lighting a pipe (all Wizards were nicotine addicts of the first order), and Detritus was was tapping his foot. It made the gravel judder on the training-ground floor.

“Er. Sorry,” he said, and pulled at his breastplate again. “Just ore-gathering, I suppose. 6"

“Pay attention, you ‘orrible little man,” Detritus shouted, and waved a massive hand at where Legolas stood. “You fightin’ the Not-Elf. Go on.”

“Thought I was to stay away from him, Sarge,” Gimli said, gritting his teeth. Legolas sneered at him.

“Dis a watch-house. You gotta work wiv people even if you wanna bash their heads in wiv your fist and turn their teef into necklaces for posh ladies. You keep away from him when you not working, it all golden. Otherwise, you do your job. Unnerstood?”

“Yes, Sarge,” Gimli mumbled sullenly, echoed by Legolas.

Reluctantly, he turned and held up his truncheon, facing the Not-Elf (damn, that name was going to stick). Legolas seemed just as reluctant, and he lifted his truncheon with some distaste.

“Well?” Gimli said, and raised his eyebrows. “Come on, then! Come at me.”

“With pleasure,” Legolas said, all haughty disdain, and he stepped forward and brought the truncheon down with inhuman swiftness towards Gimli’s arm. 

That! That _there_ was why Gimli knew his suspicions were not unfounded! No human moved so damned _quick!_

He growled and jerked his truncheon-arm away, before striking up at Legolas’ solar plexus with his other fist. The Not-Elf danced out of range, before scampering back to swing for Gimli’s head. It ricocheted from his new helmet, and Gimli shook his head as the metal rang like a bell. 

The minute his eyes refocused, he squared his shoulders and brought his truncheon up like an axe. The huge blow probably would have seen Legolas’ brains all over the training-ground… _if_ he had still been standing where it landed. Legolas was now somehow behind him. Legolas’ truncheon landed on Gimli’s fingers, trying to make him drop his own weapon.

“Ow!” 

“Shouldn’t we…” he dimly heard Merry say, but the sergeant shushed him.

“Watch, lance-constable.”

Gimli whirled, his fist lashing out again. He caught Legolas across the chest, and the Not-Elf’s eyes bulged for a moment. A sad little wheeze escaped his mouth.

“That’ll learn you, you--” Gimli growled, moving in for the finish…only for Legolas to duck the next blow and elbow Gimli straight in his nose. He felt a crunch and swore loudly (and indistinctly).

“You were saying?” Legolas mocked, though his face was bright red and he was breathing hard. Roaring, Gimli charged forward, ignoring his aching nose. Legolas moved back, step by graceful step, leaping over Gimli’s blows that would have flattened him if any had connected.

“Stand still, you--!” Gimli puffed. It was like trying to fight a mayfly.

It sort of felt like a dance. He had fallen into a strange rhythm with the Not-Elf, and he could _feel_ him there, even if he couldn’t quite move fast enough to reach him. Legolas whirled and his nightstick landed again on Gimli’s helm with another _clang!_ Then as Gimli’s ears rang, Legolas skipped out of range and kicked him in the small of his back. 

Without much success.

“Fall over, you--!” Legolas said in frustration, kicking at Gimli again. It appeared that he hadn’t factored in the Dwarven ability to take a great deal of punishment and to stay solidly rooted upon the ground, and he had been counting on Gimli losing his balance.

“Not likely!” Gimli snorted. He felt rather lumbering as he turned about to face the Not-Elf once more, swinging his stick in a circle. By some chance of luck it caught Legolas in the side. Legolas choked once more, all his breath knocked out and his mouth hanging open. There was sweat running down his forehead. Gimli knew his own nose was probably bleeding. “You’ll have to do better than that to get me on my back!”

“Oh, is that so?” Legolas wheezed, bent over nearly double. Then his long leg whipped out, and Gimli was flat on his arse and blinking up at the cloudy Ankh-Morpork sky. A pigeon cooed at him from a nearby gutter. A gargoyle watched him with its mouth.

“Good fight,” was all Sergeant Detritus said. “Old guy, Sword guy, Cookin’ Hobbit, you on the beat tonight. Go report to Sergeant Colon. Other lot, go wash up. I’m seein’ you first t’ing, you hear?”

“Yes, Sarge,” chorused the others. 

“Now, bugger off, I wanna talk to dese two.”

The others trailed out, and Legolas and Gimli gingerly pulled themselves together as the huge troll made his way over to them. It was with a sense of satisfaction that Gimli noted the pained expression on Legolas’ face as he tried to straighten himself out. 

Detritus looked serious. “You listen,” he said, softly (though his voice still bounced from the nearby buildings). “You two move good together. _Real_ good together. I’m trainin’ recruits for years now, I know which side my shale is shattered. I know you hate de colour of each ot’ers guts. But I tell you a story. When I was a dumb lance-corporal like you, I hated a Dwarf in my batch. Cuddy, his name was. But he was the best friend I ever had, an’ I miss him every day, an’ I was too dumb to see what a good friend he was because of the Troll an’ Dwarf t’ing.

“Gloinson, I don’t care if Greenleaf is an Elf. You know why? Because now him a _watchman._ Greenleaf, dat go same to you. You learn to get along, because your fightin’ style better in ten minutes den any I seen in ten years. Or I bang heads together. We all on the same book?”

“Yes, sarge,” Gimli mumbled.

“Yes, sarge,” Legolas muttered.

The troll nodded to them, and then he moved away with rattling footsteps. 

Watching him go, with sinking heart and aching bum, Gimli swore in the language of the Dwarves. Legolas nodded gloomily. 

“Damn it. Suppose we’d better play nice then,” Gimli pulled off the ill-fitting helmet and peered up at the Not-Elf. “Want to go for a drink?”

Legolas hesitated. “Does it have to be a Dwarf bar? Only I’m not so great at quaffing.”

“Nobody’s great at quaffing, that’s the point of quaffing. If you were good at it, you’d be _sipping.”_ Gimli pressed his hands into the small of his back. “Ow. This rubbish digs into me, think I’ve rubbed some important bits raw. Not nice to fall on, let me say.”

“I’m still trying to catch my breath from that punch,” Legolas said drily, “forgive me for not being all that sorry about it.”

“That’ll teach you to get within striking distance of a Dwarf. How’s my nose?”

“Still attached.”

“Good. Got your breath back? I’m not going to any prissy posh place over on the Isle of Gods, neither.”

The two stared at each other, Gimli squirming in his prodding armour, nose throbbing, and Legolas red-cheeked and winded.

“The Bucket?”

“Right.”

  
  
AMCW Lance-Constables Gimli Gloinson and Legolas Greenleaf, by [Lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/134906257526)  


…

Merry, Pippin and Boromir joined them at Gleam Street after they had stripped out of their armour. Mr. Cheese, the owner, nodded to them once and continued to mop up the counter. The Bucket was quiet in the way of all policeman’s pubs: nobody wanted to commit an infraction in the face of so much possible consequence.

There were a few other coppers sitting around, nursing their drinks. Captains Angua and von Humpeding were conversing quietly in a booth, and Reg Shoe was sipping at a glass of formaldehyde next to Wee Mad Arthur (whose pint of stout was nearly twice the size of him… not that it was stopping him). 

It didn’t escape Gimli that over there, a werewolf and a vampire were sharing tips just as friendly as you like, and that a zombie and a feegle were currently arguing familiarly over a card game.

The recruits sank down into their benches and regarded their drinks with glum resignation.

“I thought it’d be different,” Gimli said eventually. 

They all nodded gloomily. 

“Every time Sarge shouts at me, my knees turn to water,” Pippin moaned. “And he shouts a _lot.”_

“Cheer up, Pip, you might end up in Forensics with Littlebottom and Igor. Neither of them are noisy at all,” Merry soothed.

There was a moment of unspoken horror as everyone contemplated the notion of Pippin with his hands on explosives and chemicals and advanced Igoring techniques.

“Maybe not,” Legolas said hurriedly.

“Old Stoneface’ll kick me out in disgrace, I just know it,” Gimli groaned, and he rubbed at his head. “I thought coppering would suit me, but I might as well pack up and head back to Copperhead right away. What was I thinking? I’ll be a knockerman like my cousin Dain, and that’ll be that.”

Boromir sighed. “I thought I’d be the best in the class, and then Aragorn waltzes in with his shiny sword and his fancy moves. Blast it, I miss my brother. Perhaps I should go back to Zemphis too.”

“Come on, lads, it’s only the first week,” said Merry brightly. “Everyone has a little trouble when beginning something new, eh? Stick with it. It’ll get better.”

“Aye, if I can only keep from smacking the Not-Elf in his silly smug face every time he insults me,” Gimli grumbled.

“If you would only _stop_ calling me an Elf!” snapped Legolas, his pointed ears going red.

“I didn’t call you an Elf, I called you a Not-Elf, so hold onto your stupid blond hair,” Gimli growled back.

Boromir pinched his nose between his fingers. “Shut up and drink. And nobody else say anything about Elves.”

Gimli scowled and tipped his drink back.

It was at that moment that the door opened with a _bang!_ In strode another Dwarf, his hair in disarray and his eyes panicked. “This is the police pub, isn’t it?” he demanded of Mr. Cheese. “Tell me I have found the right place at last!”

Mr Cheese polished a glass, his long face unchanging and unsmiling.7

“You’ve found it,” he said, and then waved a hand at the assembled coppers, all of whom had risen to a half-crouch. “We’ve a selection of coppers, take your pick. But no axes in the bar-room, or Captain Ironfoundersson’ll be hearing about it.”

“Damn, and I just got off-duty,” Angua could be heard to grumble. “That’s a got-to-get-to-work expression on his face. And he smells like trouble.”

“His heartbeat’s going like mad, too,” agreed Sally, and the pair shared a look of fellow understanding. Gimli wondered if he would ever develop that level of rapport with any of his fellow coppers… and then sank down in his seat. Becoming a knockerman was beginning to sound more and more probable.

“I need help,” the new Dwarf said, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “My – my husband, he’s missing…”

“Why didn’t you go to the Watch-house?” asked Reg, and the Dwarf swallowed.

“I… I don’t know, I just,” the Dwarf ran a hand through his hair, his eyes frantic. “I just didn’t think.”

Then Gimli started, because all at once he recognised the fellow. “Oakenshield?” he said incredulously. “Thorin Oakenshield?”

The Dwarf turned to spot Gimli where he sat, and he frowned. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Gimli - Gimli Gloinson, from Copperhead. I haven’t seen you since I was a pebble… and you’re alive! But everybody thinks you’re dead!”

The Dwarf, Thorin, cleared his throat. “You were meant to,” he said shortly. “You’ve grown.”

Gimli folded his arms, squinting at the other. Oakenshield had silver in his hair now, and he had grown a little softer, a little less hard-carved. He looked happy, if not for the frantic panic he was barely keeping in check. “ _Why_ are we meant to believe that one of the most important Dwarves in Uberwald is dead? And what husband?”

“Because I have no wish to challenge Rhys Rhysson for the Scone of Stone, amongst… other reasons. Had I remained in Uberwald, I would have been a rallying point for every Grag with a grudge,” Oakenshield said, blowing out a gusty breath of frustration. “Gloinson, cousin, you will hear the whole tale later, no doubt. But for now, _my husband is bloody well missing, thank you very much!”_

Captain Angua glanced between Gimli and Thorin, and then she threw back her drink with one gulp and signalled to Mr. Cheese. “Add them on my tab,” she said, and stood. “Gloinson, with me. I am of course assuming from this conversation, at which there are many trustworthy witnesses, that you know this Dwarf and can therefore assist the police in their enquiries.”

“I doubt that, considering that until five minutes ago I thought he was _dead,_ ” Gimli muttered, and he cast a wistful eye at his beer. Damn it. “My father is going to shout at you for an hour straight, you realise.”

Thorin winced. “Aye, possibly, but I’d even be happy to endure one of Gloin’s rants if it means my husband is safe back home.”

“Come on, let’s take this to the watchhouse,” Angua sighed, and she pulled on her helmet. “I have a nasty feeling about this one already. I just hope it doesn’t include anything designed by Bloody Stupid Johnson this time. Or high heels.”

“Hear, hear,” Sally agreed sourly. “I was really enjoying that Slow Dirty Screw.”

Everyone gave the vampire a blank look, and Mr Cheese cleared his throat. “House special on the cocktail board this week,” he said mildly. 

Wee Mad Arthur blinked at him with sudden, laserlike interest. “Ye have a _cocktail board?_ Why did ye never say, ye scunner!”

Mr. Cheese shrugged. “Sally, Cheery and Nobby are the only ones who ever drink ‘em.”

Gimli fell in behind the two Captains, and his cousin matched his steps silently. Gimli glanced over at Thorin, and then looked back down at his boots. The day had started bad, gotten worse, and had now taken a sharp right turn into surreal. His cousin was truly alive? 

“You can stop sneaking looks at me, Gimli, I promise I will not disappear,” Thorin said, amusement showing even despite the worry and strain on his face. 

“Sorry,” Gimli said, and tugged at his beard a little. “Doesn’t seem real.”

“It’ll sink in, no doubt.”

“You’ve been in Ankh-Morpork all this time?”

“Aye.”

“Then why hasn’t any other Dwarf seen you and reported back that you live?” Gimli thought of his other cousins, and of how everyone had grieved. “It would have made them so happy…”

“There was the whole Low King business,” Thorin reminded him, and Gimli grunted.

“Aye, but nobody would have elected you to the Scone of Stone if you didn’t want it. What are these other reasons you mentioned? Anything to do with this husband of yours?”

Thorin’s lips tightened, and his eyes slid away. “Ahhh.”

“Got good instincts, doesn’t he?” remarked Captain Humpeding. “Asking the right sort of questions. He doesn’t wait long enough for a proper answer though. No patience.”

“That’ll come in time,” Angua said, and winked down at Gimli. He reddened to know that the two Captains had been listening in on their conversation. “Don’t look so embarrassed! If it had been anyone other than us, I doubt they would have heard a word you said. As it is, you seem to have spectacularly bad luck, because we have the best ears in the entire Watch.”

“That’s not news,” grunted Thorin. “The bad luck, anyway.”

“So, where _have_ you been living? Nowhere in Dimwell, that’s for sure.” Gimli began to grit his teeth as his shock faded, only to be replaced by anger. 

“Dolly Sisters,” Thorin said, rather stiffly. 

“Humph. And you didn’t think to let your nephews know you lived? Your sister? Your family? You massive, massive bastard,” Gimli added for good measure. Thorin looked pained.

“I am sorry,” Thorin said after a beat. “But…”

“There were reasons,” chorused Angua, Sally and Gimli together. Angua pushed open the gate of Treacle Mine Road and nodded to both Dwarves. “In you go, and let’s hear them.”

“Yes, I’m quite eager to hear ‘em myself,” Gimli growled, and Thorin’s shoulders hunched a little.

Sally nodded to them both and left to go have a quiet word with the on-duty desk sergeant, and Angua led them into an interview room that also seemed to double as a firetrap. Files lined the walls in boxes, and the werewolf and the two dwarves had to cram in quite close in order to fit around the little table. “And now you know where Mister Vimes’ paperwork goes to die,” Angua said, smirking at Gimli. 

“Ought to get a better system than this,” Gimli said, eyeing the teetering stacks.

“Oh, A.E.’ll get around to this room eventually.” Angua waved a hand. “He’s been clearing the second floor before getting around to this one. Have you met Pessimal yet?”

Gimli shook his head.

“Everyone should go on the beat with A.E. at least once, if only to understand what it is like to stand next to the power of true enthusiasm.” Angua smiled at Thorin with white, white teeth. “So, Mister… Oakenshield, was it?”

“Yes, and my husband is missing,” Thorin said, sitting up straight once more. The air of guilt sloughed off him like rainwater as he returned to the matter at hand, and his fingers clasped together in worry. “He hasn’t been home since early this morning, and our front room has been turned upside down… as though someone has been looking for something.”

“Early this morning, you say?” Angua dug into her pocket and brought out a notepad. “At about what time?”

“Around five am is when he leaves to go open the bakery,” Thorin said, and he took a long, controlled breath. “I’m normally asleep still, I go in later.”

“And where is this bakery?”

“Dolly Sisters, over on Zephire Lane. Baggins’ Bread and Pies,” Thorin said, leaning forward anxiously and watching Angua write the words down.

“Baggins,” mused Gimli, trying to pinpoint it. “I know that name, don’t I?”

“You should,” Angua said, still writing and not looking up from her notepad. “It’s the name of one of your fellow recruits.”

“It is?” Gimli blinked. Then it hit him with the force of a falling anvil: Gimli himself was the only Dwarf in his recruiting party. “ _Thorin!”_

Thorin’s whole face turned scarlet. “I told you there were reasons!”

“Any relation, then?” Angua asked, all business. Her pencil never stopped scratching across the paper.

Thorin sighed. “Bilbo is Frodo’s uncle.”

“Never! You have got to be pulling my beard,” Gimli said, his jaw dropping open. “The Elf can’t have hit me _that_ hard…”

“Elf!” Now Thorin half-stood in alarm. “What Elf!?”

“No, no, ignore that, he’s not an elf, he just looks like one,” said Gimli, and he stared at his cousin in bewilderment as the other Dwarf sank back into his seat, blinking. “Well, no wonder you didn’t want that news getting back to the deep-down Grags in Uberwald,” he said eventually. 

Thorin lifted his chin and he met Gimli’s eyes with a clear challenge in them. “And what will you say?”

Gimli squeezed his own eyes shut, and then shook his head again. “Dunno. Oh, don’t look like that, I won’t spill your secret. But you should have let your family know you were alive,” he ended firmly. “That was a complete bastard thing to do, you prick.”

“I know,” Thorin groaned and put his head in his hands. “I know, I know, but I didn’t see another way out at the time.”

“So, I gather that our new friend here is a Dwarf of importance?” Angua said, and she flipped a page on her notepad and gave them a mildly expectant look. 

“Could say that, aye. He’s descended in direct line from B’hrian Bloodaxe himself,” Gimli said, and shrugged. “But then, so’m I. Still, Thorin here is the eldest of the eldest branch of the family. Some of the more… _intense_ grags might get a little on the frothing side when they hear he has married a Hobbit.” He turned to Thorin. “Still can’t _believe_ you married a Hobbit.”

“Can you tell me exactly when you noticed that your husband was missing, sir?” Angua asked patiently.

Thorin swallowed. “I went in to work at around seven, like I do every day. The bakery hadn’t opened yet, but sometimes Bilbo is running a little late if he is feeling fancy… he gets very involved in decorating the tarts, you see…”

Gimli coughed. Thorin sent him a filthy look.

“Please continue,” Angua said, as pleasant and mild as milk. The smile she turned onto Gimli had far too many teeth in it. 

“Well, I opened up, and the ovens were cold,” Thorin said, still eyeing Gimli crossly. “That’s not normal. I called, and nobody was there. The dough for the morning’s bread was mixed on the counter but it hadn’t been shaped and put in the ovens, and the back door was open…”

“I see,” Angua said, and she jotted down another note. “And then you made your way back home?”

“Yes, to see if he had just forgotten something.” Thorin’s lips were tight and unhappy. “But when I got there, the window had been forced and half the contents of our drawers had been tipped onto the floor. They’d been looking for something…”

“Hmmm.” Angua tipped her head and studied her notes. Then she stood, jostling a pile of boxes with her shoulder. “Thank you, sir. I know this is a trying time. Do you know if your husband had any enemies?”

“Who could hate Bilbo?” Thorin said in a hopeless sort of way, looking down at his hands. “No, I can’t imagine anyone who would harm him.”

“Except maybe a deep-downer who had found out your secret, cousin,” said Gimli, and he cringed at the forlorn look that crossed Thorin’s face.

“With your permission, we’d like to examine both your home and the bakery,” said Angua. “Have you disturbed anything at either scene?”

“Just the doors,” said Thorin, and his shoulders slumped again. 

"I'm sorry," Gimli offered hesitantly. "We'll get him back?" Damn, but he wished he didn't sound so uncertain, like the green recruit he so clearly was.

Thorin nodded once, his head lowering until his chin touched his chest.

…

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> 1As unimpressive as that was.  
> 2Sergeant Detritus wore a helmet designed to optimise the working of his silicate-based trollish brain. Someone had once thrown a crumpled-up piece of paper into it for a laugh, and Detritus had trailed confetti for the next hour. That someone had, incidentally, spent that same hour hunched over picking up his teeth.  
> 3There are still many ways to commit suicide in Ankh-Morpork, despite these rather more law-abiding days. Walking into a troll bar and asking for ‘one on the rocks’ is a good way to go about it. Whistling ‘Hi-ho’ on Whalebone Lane is another.  
> 4This isn’t to say that Gimli didn’t like the all time biggie, Gold Gold Gold. He just wondered what it would be like to sing about something else, for once. He’d tried to write a song about silver once. He’d quickly gone back to writing about gold. Silver was too hard to rhyme.  
> 5Of course, this is before they discovered that Nobby Nobbs was also a member.  
> 6A human might have said ‘wool-gathering.’  
> 7Running a pub in Ankh-Morpork tends to imbue one with the ability to be virtually unshockable. Also, coppers know what they like in a bartender: no cheeky chatter, no bloody banter, no asking after their day. They’re there to drink.


End file.
